Topless Dancers, Bottomless Appetites

Rated

For unfathomable fetishes, the Internet is a great resource. But none of those kinky sites can claim to satisfy that most primal desire: hunger. Of course, Hooters offers its patented combination of buffalo wings and waitresses in tight T-shirts. But for those who want to lunch more intimately with their libido, here is a smattering of the capital area's topless eateries:

Kahoots, 639 Main St., East Hartford

If one ignored the footlights and mirrored columns at the stage's center, the dining room at Kahoots could easily pass for the family-friendly interior of a TGI Friday's. There is a bit of a nautical/outdoors theme at work here (a long-handled fishermen's net hangs on one wall, the head of a gazelle on another), and there is a bust of Beethoven mounted over one booth. The walls are red brick, the booths Naugahyde.

On a recent afternoon, the club's parking lot was stuffed with sensible sedans and work vans. Inside, there was a big but orderly and polite crowd of about 85 men and one gentleman who shared a table with a woman who might've been his wife. The number of patrons in white collars and tie tacks was roughly equal to those in blue jeans and work shoes. A handful of men sat huddled close to the performers, exchanging dollar bills for attention. But most occupied booths and watched Jerry Springer and ESPN as closely as they did the topless young women in thongs.

The staff here is friendly and attentive, and the menu is a passable mix of traditional pub food. The Kahoots Club sandwich is a hearty pile of turkey and vegetables, and the chicken fingers are, like the best American grub, breaded and fried. Both serve as a nice complement to a cold bottle of Budweiser.

The Kitchen Cafe, 3573 Berlin Turnpike, Newington Though its namesake isn't installed yet -- they're still building the kitchen -- this club won't let its patrons go hungry. A hulking deep fryer behind the bar dispatches two varieties of chicken: wings and tenders. And if they don't satisfy, there's always the popcorn bowls on the bar, generously supplied by the carnival-style popper in the corner.

Except for a couple of dancers digging in at the end of the bar, the thinnish weekday crowd mostly opts for the liquid lunch. But don't let that stop you from ordering a cold bottle of Budweiser and a basket of fried pizza pockets (also available in your grocer's freezer). Dip them in marinara sauce, and choose one of the 10 televisions above the bar to watch, because on the dark dance floor beyond, not much is happening.

Under a black light, an undulating pink thong suggests the shape of a dancer. She meanders on too-high heels, trailing a glowing negligee. Eventually she steps off the stage and leads a mustachioed man in a windbreaker to an adjacent room for his private dance.

It's your cue to head back to work or whatever you use to fill the day.

As you exit, admire the argyle pattern mowed into the vast lawn across the Berlin Turnpike. Find your car. It's there, next to the black Jeep with the words ``Mr. Stalker'' painted across the side in pink.

The Gold Club, 145 W. Service Road, Hartford

Sandwiched between a tractor-trailer garage and the Erotic Empire video store, the Gold Club faces I-91, hailing hungry travelers with a simple pitch: ``Gentleman's Cabaret.''

Outside, the 3 o'clock sun is blinding, but inside, the mood is set at perpetual twilight, all smoked glass and mirrors.

Whether the diner sits at the bar, a table or a padded armchair bordering the circular stage with twin brass poles, a full menu awaits. Standard appetizers and sandwiches are set off by ``Tex-Mex'' options and selections ``From the Garden.''

For a midafternoon snack, the cheese and fruit plate -- crackers, cubes of Swiss, and a cup of oranges and melon speared on plastic toothpicks -- goes down well with a cold bottle of Budweiser.

As the president appeals for a break in the dock-worker's strike on an overhead television, Gold Club employees fortify themselves for the dinner rush. The bartender noshes on a wrap. Perched on a stool, a petite dancer in a schoolgirl's skirt works on a stacked cheeseburger. Across the room, the DJ sneaks bites between announcements. ``Put your hands together for the sexy lady on stage.''

And there she is, working up an appetite of her own as she hugs a pole and spins slowly with her toes pointing to the walls.